Keep Moving
by Kay Linne
Summary: Ultimatum ended much too soon. There is much left to learn. He keeps moving, he must keep moving.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Characters are not mine, they began in the mind of Robert Ludlum and progressed through a myriad of writers & directors, most notably Tony Gilroy and Doug Liman and Paul Greengrass and Matt Damon. Apologies to each and every one of the actors and actresses who created these characters. No offense is intended, this is what happens when I'm left to my own devices...

Some assumptions made, some liberties taken.

A/N: begins where The Bourne Ultimatum left us.

* * *

_I'm no longer Jason Bourne._

_I'm no longer Jason Bourne._

_I'm no longer Jason Bourne._

It was a mantra, a rhythmic phrase that ran through his mind, kept his feet moving, kept his lungs pumping, kept time with his beating heart – and his chattering teeth.

Plunging into the icy waters of the East River from the 10th floor of the medical facility was not one of the more intelligent options he'd chosen in his last years.

And he remembered those last years now.

Hitting the water from that height was like, well, like hitting water from that height. Unstoppable force, meet immovable object. Okay, so the object lost, but the force of parting those particular hydrogen and oxygen molecules gave his bruised and battered body another whole new set of aches and pain. Bleak humor filled his thoughts as gravity did its thing. _It isn't the fall that kills you – it's that sudden stop at the end_. It had taken his breath away – literally smacked the wind from his lungs, his tissues, nearly every cell in his body. He was sure he'd blacked out, but he hadn't remained unconscious for long.

Acting almost totally on survival instinct, he'd kicked off his shoes and pushed toward the surface. Acutely aware that he was more than likely still being tracked, he broke the surface as silently and gently as possible, nosing up far enough to grab another lungful of air. Sinking back into the dark water, he swam toward the nearest shore, grateful for the darkness that had fallen while he'd spent time in the medical facility with Hirsch. Albert Hirsch. Doctor Albert Hirsch. _Doctor._ Yeah, the good doctor was a highly skilled physician – of mind bending and reality altering. He squeezed his eyes shut against the memories that flooded his mind. He knew he'd have to deal with them eventually, but first and foremost, he had to get out of the water.

He wore no protective wetsuit this time. And he knew all about hypothermia. He had to get to shore, get out of the water, get out of the wet clothes. His feet touched bottom, his exploring hands felt the sloping of the river's edge. He eased himself slowly from the water, crawling along the edge, keeping his body low to the ground, making himself as small a target as possible.

He had a pretty good idea that if he were caught and not killed, he'd be taken into custody, taken back to the training facility, taken back to where this whole nightmare had begun. They'd want to know why – why he'd lost his memory, why the training hadn't stuck, why he'd botched the Wombosi op, why, why, why. They'd subject him to microscopic examination, an examination of which he wanted no part.

He did not intend to go back. He would not go back. He figured he would die first.

As he surveyed his surroundings, the instincts upon which he'd come to rely told him that there were no immediate threats nearby. He stood slowly, letting water drain from his clothing. He began to move along the shore, knowing he'd have to lose the wet clothes soon. He turned toward the city, wrapping his arms around his chest, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other.

_I'm no longer Jason Bourne._

_I'm no longer Jason Bourne._

The car was nearly on him before he knew it. It was a small car, light colored, and it came along slowly, as if looking for something – or someone. He blinked his eyes, kept his head down, kept moving. Maybe it would pass on by.

It didn't. It slowed. Came to a stop. The passenger door opened. He stiffened in anticipation of attack, an attack against which he realized he had no defense. His resources were nearly depleted. He was at the end of his rope and he knew it. He just kept moving.

"David."

_I'm no longer Jason Bourne_. He stopped. Looked up. Found himself looking into the sympathetic eyes of Pamela Landy.

"You're soaked," she said matter-of-fact.

_No shit_, he thought, but couldn't push words out between his clenched teeth. Clamping his jaws shut was the only way to stop his teeth from chattering.

"Get in the car. We'll get you some dry clothes." Pam's tone was urgent and sincere.

He shook his head. "Can't. N--Not. Going. Back. No. Hospital."

Pam came close, put a gloved hand on his wet coat. "No authorities, no going back. I promise. But you'll die out here without proper treatment. Please. You've provided me with so much – let me return the favor."

David Webb knew she was right about the dying part. He was in desperate need of dry clothing and a place in which to hole up. He wanted to trust her. Her commentary on the phone in Madrid had solidified her place in all this. She had dared to disagree with her superiors, she was sympathetic to his cause. And she was most certainly the one behind the whole "Gilberto do Piento" call at Customs upon his arrival.

He looked into the car, seeing only the man driving, Pam's right hand man whose name he did not know. Pam opened the back door, tugging gently on his arm. He allowed her to assist him into the vehicle. He made an effort to open the zipper on his coat, but his fingers refused to grasp the slide. Pam gently pushed his frozen hands out of the way. She helped him out of his coat, his t-shirt. She produced a dry blanket that she wrapped around his shoulders. She sat next to him, leaning forward to tap the shoulder of the man in the front seat.

He heard the driver speak, his voice low, urgent. "You sure you want to do this, Pam?"

"I owe him," she replied softly.

Webb felt the car move, felt the chattering of his teeth invade other parts of his body. His hands shook, his legs, his shoulders. He had not felt this used since the days following his close calls in Moscow, nearly two months ago. Pam moved closer, put her arms around his body, cradling him, willing some of her own warmth into his frozen frame. They drove in silence. Even with the dry blanket around him, he felt himself slipping into the darkness – and then Pam's arms tightened around him.

"This isn't the way to my townhouse, Tom," she pointed out.

"I know," the driver, Tom, replied. "But more than likely, they will still be looking for him. He's made contact with you before. You are probably at the top of the list of people they'll be watching."

"So where does that leave us?"

"My place," Tom replied.

"What about your wife?"

"I'll just have some serious explaining to do, won't I?"

Pamela Landy relaxed a bit, nodding her approval as she turned to the shivering man in the back seat of the car. "David?"

That was the last thing David Webb – Jason Bourne – heard as his body was swallowed by the darkness of oblivion.


	2. Chapter 2

"David?" Pam's voice betrayed her concern. When there was no response from the man on the seat next to her, she pressed two fingers against the side of his neck, searching for a pulse. She let out the breath she'd been holding as the heart beat that met her exploring fingers was regular, steady. But his skin was damp and cold, and he continued to shiver. She pulled the blanket tighter about his torso.

"How is he doing?" Tom asked, totally aware that his boss was more than likely getting herself – and quite possibly him – into hot water for harboring this former Agency asset, now a fugitive.

"Unconscious, but breathing," Pam replied, her voice more in control. "He's cold, too cold."

Tom cranked the heat higher.

"Thanks, Tom," Landy acknowledged her co-worker's effort. They traveled in easy silence for a while.

"I'm still not so sure that taking him to your place is the best idea," Landy commented eventually.

"The best idea would be a hospital, Pam, and you know that," Tom chided, none too gently. "He's an assassin, a killer, for god's sake. He probably should be in custody somewhere." Cronin glanced at his boss in the rear view mirror. "How in the world did you know he'd be out there, on the road?"

Pam smiled. "You and I both saw the aftermath of the high speed pursuit in Moscow. That Bourne walked away from all that twisted metal is a testament to some special kind of physical stamina. He looked like shit when he rounded that corner on 71st. Like he'd been through the wringer. And I can't imagine his meeting with Doctor Hirsch was anything near easy, physically or mentally. Yet, when I heard Vosen's goons report that their target had jumped from the roof, I just had this feeling. That he'd survive."

"You've always had good instincts, Pam. So he's not just your run-of-the-mill paid assassin, is he?" Tom's question was more of a statement.

Landy thought for a moment. So far she had kept most of what she'd found out about Treadstone and Blackbriar to herself, not wanting to endanger any one else's career – or life, as it was obvious that those in control of the programs were not above eliminating threats to the programs, real or imagined. She chose her words carefully.

"I've spent much of the last couple days puzzling over those Treadstone files. Particularly Bourne's. Webb's now, I guess," Pam felt Webb stir next to her at the mention of his name. _Good_, she thought, _he's coming to, warming up a bit._

"I'm just not sure how much to divulge," she explained. "Call it 'plausible deniability.' What you don't know can't be held against you. I am probably already in deep shit for accepting those top secret documents from Bourne – Webb. If I go down, I don't want to drag you with me, Tom."

"I'm already there, Pam, just by being here behind the wheel," Tom informed her, and she knew he was right. "Tell me what you know, and even what you suspect," he urged. "It will be better if we're both on the same page."

Landy considered Tom's words. She sighed. "It goes back a number of years, back before Abbott and Conklin – who, I believe, were manipulating the Treadstone program for their own benefits. When Abbott told me about Treadstone being black-on-black, I wasn't sure how serious to take him. He said it was a kill squad. It was. And the men trained to be agents of this squad were subjected to training methods that I can only imagine – more like torture."

"Experimental stuff," Tom guessed. Pam smiled. She couldn't keep much from her second-in-command. Tom was sharp and probably had a pretty good idea of what was in the Treadstone files.

"I believe so," she agreed. "It was a lot of psychological manipulation. Breaking the mind, making it re-trainable, easier to control and command," Pam shivered involuntarily at the thoughts. "Hirsch seems to be the mastermind, the psychologist. Devised and refined techniques used years ago, during the cold war. It looks like Treadstone sought young men with few if any ties to family. With some, they pushed the patriot button, others I'm not sure. But they found willing subjects with the right combination of physical and mental attributes, got them to volunteer, and, once in the program, were able to mold them into these killing machines," she paused, letting Tom absorb her comments. "Webb here seems to have been the first success. There may have been a few others before him who didn't 'work out.' They met with strange fates."

Tom shook his head. He understood Pam's implications.

"Webb became operational as Jason Bourne in the late 1990s. Alexander Conklin was one of his handlers. Together they eliminated targets suspected of plotting against US interests. Occasionally these 'US interests' were fuzzy, and I am sure that certain personal objectives colored the decision process. There were ops that looked like they were sanctioned, and I get the feeling there were some that weren't. The Neski murders weren't. Abbott was up to his eyeballs in that mess, accepting money from the Russian Gretkov for the oil leases, calling on Treadstone to provide an assassin to take out Neski." Pam had to swallow hard against the anger that rose in her throat as she thought of the innocent lives lost as a result of that op. She took a deep breath and continued, "Bourne was working on the assassination of Nykwana Wombosi several years back. I believe that may also have been unsanctioned. Something happened during that op. Jason Bourne suffered some sort of trauma induced amnesia. Something upset the training and I think Jason Bourne began to remember who he was."

"So you think maybe Webb is overcoming all that training? That he is no longer Jason Bourne, no longer a killer?"

"I'm not sure what he is, Tom. He may have entered the Treadstone program of his own free will, but I think that free will was stripped away. I, in good conscience, cannot condone that kind of 'training.' Call me crazy, but I think he deserves a chance to discover who he is and what was done to him, don't you?"

Tom shrugged. "I don't know what you hope to gain from this."

Next to her, Webb stirred again, shifted his position. Pam rearranged the blanket around the man and he settled back quietly. "I'd like to make sure he has a fighting chance," she continued. "To find out what happened. To allow him to come to terms with some of the things he did – and those things that were done to him." Pam shivered again as she tried to put the thoughts of some of the more vicious Treadstone treatments out of her mind. "I don't think he'd get that if he were forced to return to the Agency. He doesn't strike me as the kind who would cooperate and allow himself to be examined under a microscope. His life was taken from him, regardless of the volunteer status." She put a hand on Tom's shoulder. "I don't think either one of us signed up to deal with people, friend or foe, in this manner. And I think we'll be able to find out what went wrong if we don't force or threaten him. So…" she paused, knowing full well that her actions could easily be used against her, that she could be summarily drummed out of the Agency for good, taking Tom Cronin with her. No one liked a whistle blower. She changed the subject. "Are you going to call Shelly and warn her?"

"I was thinking about it," Tom let the subject drop for the moment, "but I'm leery. I don't know what is being monitored and what isn't. I don't want any surprises waiting for us when we get there."

"It's not too late to turn back and go to my place," Pam pointed out. "I faxed Vosen's documents to the chair of the Senate oversight committee. And once she reads those, I don't think we'll have to worry about anyone on our tails. They'll all be too busy trying to cover their own." She chuckled grimly.

"To be on the safe side, we'll operate as usual – with extreme caution," Tom replied.

"Agreed. I expect nothing less"

"I hope that this doesn't backfire on you Pam," Tom continued, his voice low. "But you know that you can always count on me to be there."

Landy smiled. She'd picked a definite winner for a right hand man. Tom Cronin would always watch her back as long as he was breathing and able.

"Here we are." Tom turned the wheel, maneuvering the vehicle into an ally that ran behind the brownstone he shared with Michelle – Shelly – his wife of nearly 20 years. He shut off the lights and slowed to a stop.

* * *

Nothing was working like it should. He existed in darkness, hearing only bits and pieces of the conversation that surrounded him. Words and names caught his attention, words and names that now had meaning. _Treadstone. Training. Volunteer. Hirsch. Conklin_. He tried to focus on these words, but his mind wandered. Memories crowded his mind, memories that were part of the life of Jason Bourne and memories that were part of the life of one David Webb. There were so many that vied for his attention it almost hurt. Pushing them away, he again tried to focus on the voice speaking beside him. He knew the voice – it belonged to Pamela Landy. She was Agency. She had been in Berlin looking for files that had started the whole mess in which he now found himself. She was talking about Treadstone, and she had a lot of the details right. 

The car stopped, the door opened, he tried to move – and was rewarded with screaming pain from his right side. It took his breath away, dragged a groan from his throat. Had he struck something when he dove off the roof? He couldn't remember. He was cold, he was tired. Every fiber of his being hurt. He was no longer Jason Bourne, but, like Jason Bourne in Moscow not so very long ago, he knew he had to keep moving.


	3. Chapter 3

Tom had brought the car to a stop, and turned to face Pam. "I'll go let Shelly know what's going on, and then come back. Looks like he could use help."

Pam nodded. She felt movement beside her as Cronin opened the door and got out of the vehicle. The dome light gave off a soft glow and she could see that Webb had regained consciousness.

"Where - ?" the voice was hoarse.

"We're going to stay with my assistant, Tom Cronin and his wife," Pam explained. "We're hoping for a little peace and quiet here."

"Heard some – of what you said. Earlier. About Treadstone. You got – the right idea. It wasn't – pretty."

"Yes. Well, perhaps we can discuss some of the aspects of your training later. Right now, we should get you inside, find you some dry clothing." Pam slid over to open the door – and heard a sharp intake of breath from her passenger. "What is it? Something wrong?"

"Don't know. Side. Hurts."

"With the fall you took, you probably busted a rib or two," was Pam's assessment. "Wait a moment. Tom will be back to help."

Sprinting to the back door of his house, Tom Cronin thrust the key in the lock, pushing the door open and poking his head inside. "Shel? Shel, you here?"

Michelle Cronin appeared in the hall that led from their kitchen. Dressed comfortably in jeans and sweatshirt, shoulder length brown hair tucked up underneath a worn blue baseball hat with NAVY emblazoned on the front, she did not look like the average college professor. She had a towel in one hand, a bottle of window cleaner in the other, and a puzzled look on her face. "Tom? I thought you were working late. What's…"

Tom held up his hand, stopping his wife in mid sentence. "We have company, hon. Sorry for not letting you know sooner. It's – complicated."

Shelly's eyes narrowed and concern filled her features. Her husband, usually so easy going, was as serious as she'd ever seen him. "What's going on? Who is here?"

"Pam Landy. And a fellow by the name of Bourne."

"Pam? I haven't seen her in months! It will be good to catch up. But this isn't a social visit, is it? What – what's going on, Tom?"

Cronin moved into the hall, put his arms around his wife, pulled her close. "We have a situation. You know I would never knowingly expose you to any danger. I think everything will work out okay, but I want to play things under the radar for now. We've got a fella here who is in need of a place to stay for a bit. He took a dip in the East River. We need some dry clothes and some hot coffee. Can you do that for me? Pam and I will explain more when we get him settled."

Shelly returned Tom's hug, but as she pulled back, she kept her hands on his arms, preventing him from just turning around and leaving. "I trust you, Tom," she began. "You haven't let me down yet. But this is a little unusual, even for you." She searched his face, his eyes, for any sign of duress. Satisfied that Tom had things under control, she nodded. "I'll get the coffee going."

Tom planted a kiss on his wife's forehead. "Thanks, hon, I'll be right back." He turned to head back to the car and his wife called after him.

"The spare room is made up if it's needed."

Tom smiled as he left the house. He could always count on Shelly.

Outside, Pam had already gotten out of the vehicle and was surveying the area around the brownstone with an eye for the out-of-place. "He's conscious, but injured, I think," she reported as Tom returned. "Not sure what's wrong, maybe broken ribs."

Tom approached the open car door to find David Webb moving slowly, eyes squeezed shut, jaws clamped together tightly. "It's a short walk to the house," Tom informed him. "Think you can make it?"

Webb nodded as he gingerly slid his legs out the door and pushed himself to a standing position. The blanket fell from his shoulders. Pam came up behind them to retrieve it and stopped short at the sight of his back. "Tom. He's bleeding."

Tom looked where Pam was pointing and saw the red spreading from Webb's side, coating his pants. "Can't do anything about it out here, Pam. Let's get him into the house and take it from there." He slid his shoulder under the injured man's arm, let Pam wrap the blanket around him as best she could, and together, they assisted Webb into the house.

_I'm no longer Jason Bourne. _

_I'm no longer Jason Bourne. _

One foot in front of the other. Landy's second, Tom, was on his left, steadying him. Pam walked behind them, trying to keep the blanket over his shoulders. He may no longer have been Jason Bourne, but those innate senses that had been honed to a fine edge during his time as Bourne were still as sharp – and were definitely working overtime. He took in details – other cars in the alley, windows with lights, a dog barking in the distance, a neighbor down the way taking out the trash. It was thirty five feet from the vehicle to the house, six concrete steps up to the back door. Light spilled from the entrance as the door was pushed open by a woman in jeans and sneakers, NAVY cap on her head.

"He's injured, Shel. Grab the kit from the cabinet, would you please? We'll check it out in the kitchen," Tom took charge of the situation.

With Tom's assistance, Webb found himself sitting on a chair in a warm, well lit and inviting room, surrounded by the smell of coffee perking. Tom knelt down to get a better look at his injury. Webb peered over his shoulder as Tom looked up. "This was caused by a bullet."

Webb nodded. "There was one guy up on the roof with a gun," he said, clearly remembering the loud click of the weapon as the Agency asset got the drop on him. "But I don't think he fired his weapon."

"Why not?"

"Because I'd be dead if he had," he answered. "He was a professional. There were others coming onto the roof. Had to come from someone snapping a shot off in a hurry."

"No matter, this needs attention. I was a corpsman in the Navy a while back," Tom straightened up as the woman in the Navy cap entered the room, bringing an arm load of towels and a medical kit.

"Pam! So good to see you again!" she exclaimed as she laid things on the table. The women embraced each other as Pam retuned the greeting.

"You have my apologies for barging in on you like this, Shel. I told Tom we could use my place."

"If Tom decided here was better, then here is better," Shelly Cronin asserted as she took the damp blanket from Pam. The darker stain on one side caught her eye. "I'll toss this in the laundry later. So – who's going to tell me what's going on?"

Tom was pulling off his black sport coat and rolling up his white shirt sleeves. He donned the surgical gloves from the medical kit, totally absorbed in the corpsman routine. Pam Landy marveled at how her second often surprised her and began to explain the situation to Tom's wife.

"Shelly, meet David Webb."

Webb looked up from watching Tom, straight into some very discerning blue eyes housed in a face that showed natural laughter lines and creases of a woman in her mid forties. Not beautiful, but certainly not difficult to look at. He nodded a greeting, and then gritted his teeth and hissed as Tom's exploring fingers began to probe the edges of the bullet wound in his side.

"No way this is not gonna hurt," Tom pointed out as Pam continued, "Webb here is in need of a place to hole up until certain parties are no longer looking for him."

"Agency business," Shelly nodded. "Is he in danger? Are you – we – in danger?"

At the table, Webb had rested his head on his arms, trying to ignore the pain Tom was causing as the former Navy corpsman began to clean the wound. "Looks like the bullet carved a path through the flesh along the belt line. Nasty furrow. Deep. It's bloody, messy – no doubt painful, but not life-threatening," Tom informed him, adding apologetically, "I don't have any local anesthetic."

Pam and Shelly continued their conversation quietly on one side of the room while Tom opened a cabinet and pulled out a bottle of whiskey, setting it in front of Webb. "Want some of this on the inside before I use it on the outside?" he asked.

The injured man shook his head. "It would take too much and too long to achieve its purpose." He sighed. "Just get on with it." Webb listened to the voices swirl around him in surreal fashion, Pam explaining his presence as carefully as she could, Tom clinically discussing his injury. It occurred to him that Jason Bourne would have found a hole to hide in and done this triage on his own. But he was no longer Jason Bourne.

Tom's words cut through the haze enveloping his brain, "Hang on, this is going to…"

Webb heard a yelp of pain, felt white hot fireworks explode behind his eyes. He welcomed the darkness that slammed in to claim him.


	4. Chapter 4

"David ? Come on, David, wake up."

"Five more minutes, Ma," he thought he heard himself say, but the more he considered it, the more he realized his cheek wasn't resting on his pillow. He opened his eyes and found himself flat on a kitchen floor, head on a soft, warm terrycloth towel. Recent memory returned. The kitchen belonged to Tom Cronin and his wife, Shelly. Beside him, Tom was finishing his work, applying tape to the gauze covering his injured side. Pamela Landy, CIA, hovered close, concern etching her features. She smiled as he took in his condition.

"I passed out," he guessed. He looked down along his body and noticed that his wet pants and socks had been removed, that he was dressed in a pair of gray sweatpants and thick socks. He sat up with Tom's help, and found enough strength to get himself back onto the kitchen chair.

"You weren't out long," Pam reassured him. "Just long enough for Tom to finish his work."

David's hand went to his side where his exploring fingers found a thick pad held in place with adhesive tape. The whole area throbbed with every heart beat, but it wasn't an unbearable pain.

"You've lost some blood," Tom's wife pointed out, pushing a tall glass of water in front of him. "We can't do it intravenously, so down the hatch."

Webb knew she was right, could feel that he was in need of fluid replacement. He obeyed, draining the glass. Shelly exchanged the empty glass for a steaming mug of coffee. "Decaf," she smiled. He wrapped his hands around the warm mug, grateful for the heat that radiated through his cold fingers. He sipped the hot liquid, not minding the burn on his tongue or the back of his throat.

Beside him, Shelly held out a white tee shirt, and a blue flannel shirt. "Now that Tom has finished with you, I think you might want to get these on. You look all in. And still cold. A warm shower would be best, but keeping the wound dry is more important at the moment."

At the sink, Tom had stripped off the latex gloves and was cleaning up the few bloody instruments he'd used. "I stitched up what I could, you'll need to remove the sutures in a week or so."

Webb mumbled his thanks as he gingerly pulled the tee shirt over his head, trying not to aggravate his injury. Shelly held the flannel shirt as he eased his arms into the sleeves. Pam had taken the chair across the table and was watching him closely. "You've got yourself a couple rather ominous bruises there, David." She did not mention the scars she saw on his torso, scars that spoke of other run-ins with projectiles.

He pulled the edges of the oversized shirt together, fastening several of the buttons, hiding his battered body. "Been in a few arguments lately," he replied.

"What's the other guy look like?" Shelly asked good-naturedly. Pam and Tom exchanged glances. When no one answered her question right away, she frowned. "Oh – Kay. I get the picture."

"I left the most recent one still breathing," Webb admitted quietly, focusing on the mug of coffee, not meeting anyone's eyes. Shelly raised her eyebrows in silent question to Tom, _Now_ _what_? Tom closed the med kit with a firm click. He opened a drawer in the corner of the kitchen and reached inside, up and underneath the counter top. He withdrew a pistol, a 9mm Sig Sauer, automatically checking to make sure the weapon was empty. He opened a cupboard and pulled out two full clips, laying the weapon and ammunition on the counter.

"You think that's necessary, Tom?" Pam asked. Shelly stood by the table, eyes wide and fixed on her husband.

"You tell me," Tom pointedly directed his question at the injured man. Webb did not answer right away.

Pam broke the uneasy silence. "Vosen knows I faxed the documents, and if he's smart, he's already determined where. It certainly would look suspicious if something were to happen to me, or you, so soon after his dirty dealings were revealed. I can't see anyone in the Agency setting us up right away. They'll be too busy trying to find ways to cover their own asses."

As David Webb listened to Pam's arguments, he realized that working alone had its advantages. There were no other parties to consider, no other lives to worry about. He was sufficiently warmed, his injury was treated for the moment, he knew he should get out, get away from these people, move on. He was not willing to bet any of their lives against the safety of his own. As Jason Bourne, that had not mattered. It did, now.

"I can't guarantee that there will be no trouble," he began. "It will probably be best if I leave, if I keep moving."

"You shouldn't feel like you have to stay on the run," Pam protested. "_Treadstone!_" She spat the word out as a curse. "That chapter of your life is over. Those who manipulated the program for personal gain will be exposed. They used you, David. Considering some of what I've read, you're a _victim_ here."

"Maybe," Webb shrugged. "But there are other angles to consider, things that I need to answer for." He let the comment go unfinished, but was sure the people there in the kitchen knew to what he referred. The ensuing silence was suddenly broken by the growling of his stomach. He kept his head down, embarrassed.

"When was the last time you ate?" Shelly asked gently, tucking her anxiety over the situation firmly into the back of her mind.

"It's been a while," Webb admitted sheepishly.

"You may believe you need to leave, but I will not send you out of this house on an empty stomach," she asserted. "That's the mother in me, taking charge." She glanced at Pam and Tom. "For the moment, things are quiet," she said to them. "Let's just see what happens."

Across the table, Pam smiled. "Thank you, Shel."

Shelly busied herself preparing a light meal for her guest. Tom persuaded Pam to stay the night, just in case. Together they retrieved an overnight bag from the trunk of her car. David Webb kept his focus on his coffee cup which he had drained only a moment before Shelly refilled it. "Grilled cheese and tomato soup okay with you?"

"That sounds fine," he replied, trying to keep his senses tuned to the surroundings, alert for the out-of-place. The coffee and care had warmed his body, and a bone deep weariness was making its presence known. Shelly set a plate and bowl in front of him, just as Tom and Pam returned to the house. "Pam? Tom? Anything to eat?"

"Just coffee, please, Shel," Pam replied as she again sat down at the table across from David Webb.

"Nothing, thanks, hon," Tom said as he held Pam's overnight case. "I'll drop this in Chase's room," he informed his boss. "He's not due back from school for another couple weeks. Shel, I got a little blood on this shirt, I'm gonna change."

Shelly nodded as she filled the bowl on the table with hot soup and placed a sandwich in front of Webb. He took a bite, then a second, making short work of the sandwich. The soup had been seasoned with spices other than salt and he finished the bowl, marveling at how tasty this food was. It occurred to him that was his first meal as a free man, no longer the Treadstone robot. It warmed his body from the core out and filled more than the void in his stomach. Shelly didn't even ask about a second sandwich and another bowl of soup, she just placed it in front of him and he found his way through that helping, too.

Webb could feel Pam's scrutiny, knew he was being watched, knew she had her eyes on him as she drank her coffee. He was also aware that in his line of business, one could never be sure where the next meal would be coming from, or when, and had learned to take advantage of food when the opportunity arose. He cleaned his plate a third time, finally shaking his head as Shelly asked if he wanted another sandwich. He was full. Yet, when she placed a small plate of home-made chocolate chip cookies on the table, along with a glass of cold milk, he knew he'd make room.

He bit into one and before he was even aware, he was commenting, "Good cookies, just like Ma used to m…" He stopped short. He looked at Pam in mid-chew as realization dawned.

"David?" Pam spoke quietly. "What is it?"

"'Ma.' I haven't thought about my mother in – years," Webb whispered, incredulous. He stared at the cookie, his mind racing. _Nixa. The farm. The fields. The neighbors. High school. Football. Friends. Family. Dirt roads. Old cars._ Webb blinked rapidly as memories flooded his mind. It was sensory overload. He squeezed his eyes shut against the speed with which these pieces of his life assaulted his senses. His heart rate doubled, his breathing became faster and deeper, his chest hurt, his hands began to shake.

Suddenly something was squeezing his arm. He heard his name spoken, it seemed to come from a long distance away.

"David? David!" The voice belonged to Pam Landy.

He opened his eyes and took in the kitchen that belonged to the Cronins, Landy seated across the table from him, Shelly Cronin next to him, hand pressing hard on the flesh of his forearm. Pulling him back. Anchoring him.

"Deep breaths, David," Shelly urged. "Come on. Concentrate. Slow it down." Her quiet encouragement did the trick. He focused on his body, on the pressure on his arm, on the hardness of the chair in which he sat.

"You are remembering things," Pam stated as he brought his thoughts back under control.

Webb nodded. "I remember my life as David Webb."


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N **_Apologies for moving slow here. Got lost in DSM-IV. And in an early draft of The Bourne Ultimatum script, which offered some interesting angles on the training of Treadstone agents. It's precisely why I try not to read other fanfic while I am working on my own, I don't want to be influenced one way or another by someone else's ideas. (So you other writers, have patience, I do intend to read your stories once I finish here.) And I do know where I'm going, it's just a matter of getting there, incorporating my reasoning into filling certain plot points unaddressed by The Bourne Ultimatum . :) _

_My story continues, hopefully not in too clinical a vein _

* * *

He stared at the cookie in his hand. He swallowed, hard. Licked his lips. When he spoke, it was barely above a whisper. "Ma died, when I was sixteen. Pa had already been gone for years. We had a little place, I worked the farm for the owner to help pay the rent." He paused, looked at Pam, then Shelly, eyes wide. "Wow. It's all there. David Webb's life. _**My **__life!_" He let out a long, hitching breath. 

Shelly had relaxed the pressure on his arm and she moved her hand to cover his lightly. "Sixteen. That's a tough age to lose a parent, especially if you only have one. Other relatives take you in?"

Webb shook his head. "Ma was it. After she died, one of the local police officers gave me a place to stay, until I turned 18. I'd had my share of run-ins with him," he informed them ruefully. "He probably thought he was saving himself some trouble if I was under his roof. He made an impression, steered me toward the Army. Said they could take my unique skill set and help me do something with it. They did. I joined the Rangers. I was Delta when…"

"When what?" Shelly prompted.

But David gave no answer. His heart had begun to race again, his skin grew cold and clammy, his vision blurred.

"Webb?" Pam watched his face drain of all color. "David? What's happening?"

A strangled moan was the only sound that David Webb could make. Bright lights exploded in front of his eyes, blinding him. The walls began to close in. His stomach somersaulted, his head swam. He held his head in his hands, massaging his temples, mouth open, dragging in gulps of air.

"Need – bathroom – gonna be – sick –"

"Shit!" Tom had reappeared, dressed in jeans and short sleeved shirt. He'd been leaning on the door jamb, listening. Before Shelly or Pam could do or say anything, he had covered the distance to Webb's side in two strides. Half lifting and carrying, he propelled Webb down the hall, straight into the bathroom, where the younger man dropped unceremoniously to his knees and vomited into the toilet. "Oh – god!" Webb managed to groan in between retching. "My head!"

"Guessing here – migraine?" Tom asked, well aware that the symptoms were those of that type of headache. At Webb's nod, Tom left the light in the hall on, but flipped a switch that sent the bathroom into darkness. He pulled a washcloth out of the drawer and ran it under the hot water spigot. Wringing out the majority of the water, he placed the heated terrycloth against the back of Webb's neck. With his other hand, he cupped Webb's forehead, providing support as the man's body sought to rid itself of the entire contents of his stomach. "Easy, son, easy," Tom soothed as wave after wave of nausea assaulted Webb's body.

When the spasms eased, Webb sat back on his haunches, breathing heavily, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Tom handed him the washcloth. He wiped his face, spitting into the toilet.

Within minutes, another round of nausea ensued, and Tom let nature take its course. As the second bout ended, Tom handed Webb a cup of water. "Rinse, don't swallow," he advised. Webb did as instructed, settling down on the floor, back against the wall, head hanging.

"Haven't had one this bad in a long time," Webb admitted in a voice barely above a whisper.

"You take anything for them?"

Webb nodded once. "Sumatriptan usually works."

"Standard dosage?"

"Yeah," Webb replied, eyes closed against the incessant pounding in his head. He wanted nothing more than to curl up in a dark and quiet corner, and play dead for twenty four hours. He hadn't had an attack like this since the early days of the program, when it could be controlled with drugs, oral and intravenous. Another wave of dizziness hit him hard, and he lay on the floor, knees to chest, fighting the vertigo. He did not notice that Tom left.

Both Pam and Shelly had followed the two men down the hall, and were waiting for Tom when he came out of the small room.

"Possible full blown migraine," he informed them. Shelly knew her husband suffered from them occasionally and had medication to ease the pain. Pam had never seen Tom caught by one of the debilitating headaches but she had heard about their effects.

"What does he need?" Pam asked, ready to make any phone calls necessary to obtain whatever Tom thought he might need.

"I've got some Imitrex upstairs," Tom told her as he put his arm around his wife. "Before you protest, Shel, yes, I know, you've got this thing about sharing meds, but he needs something, and aspirin won't cut the pain, you know that."

"Okay, okay, I understand," Shelly replied with a grim smile. "What can we do?"

"He'll be okay once he gets some meds and some sleep. Keep the lights low and the sound to a minimum."

"Sensitivity to light," Pam muttered as Tom disappeared up the staircase.

"What?" Shelly glanced at her, puzzled.

"It was one of the issues Treadstone agents had to deal with," Pam explained. "Something to do with the training. Side effects of whatever 'training' they were enduring. Damn. Did you see how the attacks came as he was remembering events from his past?"

Shelly shook her head. "I teach Intro Psych at the college. I'm no clinical psychologist, but it certainly sounds like someone has messed with that young man's head. Cognitive neuroscience is not my area of expertise. I can toss the words around, but I've no experience with application. If he's gone through half the stuff you mentioned before, he would need years of psychotherapy to combat the psychological damage inflicted."

"I suspect that the Treadstone files I had were the "cleaned-up" version, whitewashed, just the bare facts." Pam paced in the hall, clearly unnerved. "What truly concerns me is that this may only be the tip of the iceberg. How can they so manipulate an individual as to completely eliminate his identity, his personality? To turn him into a machine that feels nothing and kills on command, without question? What is the complete training program? Did they resort to drugs, or torture as part of the regimen? And what caused Jason Bourne's training to come apart at the seams?"

"There is an amnesia, a dissociative fugue that can result from post traumatic stress, like that caused by a powerful event – a war, or a natural disaster," Shelly mused as she stepped into the guest room and pulled back the bed coverings.

"There must be something in David Webb's past that set him up for this," Pam continued from the doorway. "And there must be more notes and information on the program buried somewhere. Maybe in Hirsch's office."

"Pam, there is nothing you can do about it anymore tonight," Shelly advised, catching Pam's eyes. "Just promise me you're not thinking about going out to look for more of those documents! You've done what you can by faxing what you had to the Committee. Be patient. The story will have to come out, sooner or later."

Pam sighed. At that moment, Tom returned with a small bottle of pills. He glanced at Shelly and then Pam, and both women knew he had heard their conversation. "Tell me you really weren't considering raiding Hirsch's office tonight," he demanded of his boss.

Pam said nothing.

"Holy Mother of God, Pam! Let the committee do its job! I let you meet Bourne on 71st Street because it was still daylight and there were plenty of people around to prevent you from getting hurt. Going to Hirsch's office in the middle of the night, with only me for back-up, is suicide."

"And don't think I'd let either one of you disappear on such a fool's errand!" Shelly folded her arms across her chest. "No one is setting foot outside this house until we hear from the chair of the Committee, is that clear?"

Pam chuckled, wondering how Shelly would manage to prevent her from leaving. But Tom's wife was right, it was probably better to sit back and let the wheels of justice turn. As difficult as it was, she capitulated. "Heard and understood, Shelly. I promise I will not leave until I hear from the committee chair. And I promise to do my best not to get your husband in trouble, either."

Tom nodded his approval and went back to his patient.

Webb was unaware of Tom's return until he heard the sound of pills shaken in a plastic vial. He remained on the floor, eyes closed, fighting to keep some of the pain at bay.

"I get migraines occasionally," the CI ops officer informed him. "Here."

Webb felt a familiar pill in his palm. He tossed it into his mouth, swallowed it with a small amount of water, hoping he could keep it down. He lay quietly for a while, waiting for his body to absorb the drug. Minutes passed, and he found that if he concentrated on current events rather than dwelling on past memories, the pain eased a bit faster. He pushed himself to a sitting position when his head no longer felt as if it would fall off.

"Finished here?" Tom asked gently.

"Think so," Webb answered, one hand on his stomach, the other over his eyes. "Nothing left inside. Too bad. Your wife makes a hell of a tomato soup."

"Yeah, she does," Tom chuckled. "I'd offer more, but I'm thinking you don't care for any at the moment."

Webb shook his head gingerly and stood, sucking in his breath as the bullet wound in his side set up its own series of protests against rough treatment.

"You probably set yourself to bleeding again," Tom said. "I should check the wound…" One look at Webb's face changed his mind. "but we can wait till later. Sleep. You look like you could use about a week's worth, son. C'mon, the guest room's right here."

Webb let Tom guide him to the room, keeping his eyes mere slits to avoid as much light as he could. He was aware of Pam and Shelly nearby in the hall, and he knew they wanted to help, but he shut them out, ignored them. He kept moving.

Half falling, he sprawled on his stomach on an opened futon in the room to which Tom had led him. Someone covered him with a sheet and light blanket. He heard the soft snick of the door shutting, leaving him in total darkness, and he concentrated on trying to make himself relax. There were tricks he'd learned as Jason Bourne. He applied them. They worked. He no longer considered himself a Treadstone assassin – but that didn't mean he would not use the skills that had been part of Jason Bourne.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** _I've had to rethink my story line a bit, as these characters have literally taken on a life of their own. I tried to keep them in line, but all they want to do is talk! Guess that has something to do with not having much dialogue in the movies. C'est la vie. :) Pam Landy is a tough cookie. So why is Webb such a sympathetic character in her eyes?_

* * *

Closing the door behind them, Pam, Tom and Shelly returned to the kitchen. The women sat at the table while Tom leaned against the counter near the gun he'd laid there earlier. "Well, Pam," he began. "We got him. Took us a while. But we finally got Jason Bourne." 

Pam nodded her head slowly, flashing him a tired smile. "Considering we only found out about Bourne less than two months ago, I'd call it extremely good luck. He managed to evade the best of the best the Agency had to send after him. Though I suspect that Abbott and his cronies pulled back on their attempts to bring him in after Conklin died. Kept him as their ace in the hole should the Neski fiasco come back to haunt them. And it did."

"I feel a little out of the loop here," Shelly commented. "I understand that this is agency business, and you can't divulge everything, but do you mean to tell me that this man has been successfully avoiding agency authorities for the last three years?"

"He's been off the radar for the last three years. Before that, he was planning and executing ops for at least four years **for** the Agency," Tom explained. "He was the triggerman in the Neski case."

Shelly frowned. "You mean that Russian murder/suicide in Berlin? What was that – seven, eight years ago?"

Pam nodded. "I believe that both can now be called 'murders,' hits which were ultimately carried out with the intent to line personal pockets. It certainly was not in the U.S.'s best interests. I cannot believe that it was what David Webb signed up for."

A frown appeared on Tom's face. "Pam, I've worked with you long enough to realize that something is really bugging you about this."

Pam toyed with the empty mug on the table in front of her. "This whole situation has been untenable from the start. It's like something out of the Cold War. I thought we'd gotten past this. This manipulation of minds. This psychological tampering. Getting someone else to do the dirty work so that no one can point a finger at us." She paused, glancing around the room, soaking in the feeling of home and family that existed in the Cronin's kitchen. "I've given over 20 years of my life to this job, working and fighting for my country. I've done the ugly jobs in the name of patriotism. I don't have a family, but I had the satisfaction of knowing what I was doing was necessary and honorable. At least I thought I had that. Now, I'm not so sure." She sighed. "We've lost a lot of people along the way, Tom. The trail of bodies began in Berlin and wound its way to Moscow, London, Tangiers. And India. The knowledge that some of the people I worked with and for were up to their eyeballs in these operations for the sake of – what? Greed? Power? – makes me – I don't know – hell, maybe I need to look for a new job."

"Pam, you can't believe that you are responsible for the deaths of these people," Tom chided. "In this business, people die. Every day. Not always for the best of reasons, but it happens."

"I understand that. But innocent lives…"

"You're talking about one in particular, aren't you?" he surmised.

Her lieutenant knew her very well. Pam nodded. "Her death was not part of the game. I kept poking, kept digging. I forced Abbott's hand by finding that lead in Germany. He sent word of Bourne's location to the Russian, and they sent their sniper to frame him and kill him. Bourne was supposed to die. But Marie took the bullet instead."

"Marie?" Shelly asked.

"Bourne's girlfriend," Pam explained. "Somehow they connected in Paris. I don't think they knew each other before, but it sounds like she was helping him through some difficult times. An op went south. Something happened to Jason Bourne, something traumatic, something that shut down the part of his brain that housed his identity. Maybe some kind of amnesia. Whatever. The training he endured in the Treadstone program came unraveled. He could not remember who he was, or what had happened. He hooked up with Marie. They lived on the run, evaded the Agency. Until I came on the case. I forced the issue. And she paid the price. He was there when she died. She took the bullet meant for him."

"So you're blaming yourself for her death? That's crazy," Tom pointed out.

"Is it? I heard his voice in the station at Alexanderplatz, while he was grilling Nicky. I listen to that tape he made of Abbott's confession, and for some reason, it cuts me to the quick. Bourne could have pulled that trigger on Abbott very easily. He was not a stranger to killing. And he certainly had motive. He didn't use the gun, because Marie didn't want him to. She was a major influence on his new life. They'd probably both still be alive and well and living in India if I hadn't pushed things," Pam shrugged. "I don't know. I was doing my job. Lousy excuse. And look at the results."

"Pam, you're tired," Shelly consoled. "You and Tom have been running on hyper-drive since you got back from Langley. These are dangerous times and you play dangerous games. It's scary when I think about it, but it's what you both have chosen, and face it – it's what you're both good at."

At that moment, Pamela Landy's cell phone began to chirp. She pulled it out of her pocket and placed it on the table. A series of numbers flashed on the screen. Pam knew immediately who was on the other end. She glanced at Tom. "It's the senator. I should take this. But I have to wonder who else will be listening."

"I don't know," Tom glanced at the pistol on the kitchen counter. "Maybe it's time to just damn the torpedoes and push on, full speed ahead."

Pam picked up the cell and opened it. "Pamela Landy," she answered as she rose from her chair and left the room. "No, Ma'am, it's not too late…"

"Tom," Shelly gave her husband a sideways glance as she left the table to stand in front of him. She put her arms around him and pulled him close. He pressed his lips against her forehead, and they stood silently for several long moments. "From everything I've heard tonight, I get the feeling that this could mean a major shake up in the Agency. And that it could include Pam – and perhaps you."

"I don't know, baby," Tom answered softly. "I'm following Pam's lead. Some heads will roll when the shit hits the fan, but you know the old "guilt by association" rule. Vosen and the doctor will answer for their actions. The ripple effect might knock some of the upper echelon around, and there's always the possibility that it could come farther down the chain of command."

"And if Pam goes?" Shelly prompted.

"If Pam goes, I go. Can't imagine breaking in a new deputy director. Getting too old for that," he smiled ruefully. "Anyway, you've said before that you're ready for me to think about retiring, right?"

Shelly chuckled as she cupped Tom's face in her hand, pulling him in for a kiss. "That wouldn't be so bad," she whispered.

"That was the Chair of the Senate Intelligence Committee," Pam reported as she came back into the room. "She is in possession of the documents I faxed to her, regarding the Blackbriar program. She is calling a special meeting of the committee, tomorrow, 11 AM. She's sending a helicopter. She wants me there," she paused, her mind racing. "I should get back to my place as soon as possible."

"Tonight yet?" Shelly asked.

"The lady has questions she wants answered," Pam explained, "and I'd like to look presentable when I attempt to provide those answers."

"Leave early in the morning, then," Shelly suggested. "Get a couple hours of sleep here before you go."

Tom nodded. "I'll catch a ride with you. I need to pick up my car anyway. And I should be there to back you up."

As Pam let herself be talked into the arrangement, Tom continued, "That leaves one question. Now that we have Bourne - Webb - what do we do with him?"

Pam shrugged. "I bet the committee would love to have him testify. **If** they learn that he's still alive. That was quite a fall he took off that rooftop. They'll be looking for a body for a while. To tell you the truth, I'm a little leery of bringing him into the picture. I mean, you know his story. Do you think there is any way he gets off scott-free?"

Tom shook his head. "He tells his story, he winds up in a cell. Or a box. He's not exactly innocent on all counts."

"He gave us Abbott, he gave us Blackbriar. I'm inclined to allow him to 'die,'" Pam countered.

"So – we let him walk."

"He's not a fugitive from justice, is he?" Shelly asked. "Why not let him recover and see what he wants to do? From what you've told me here tonight, it's time he took back the control of his own life. Let him rest here, recover. I've only one class scheduled for tomorrow, and a few office hours, nothing pressing. If you want, I'll call in, cancel my day, stay here and keep an eye on our guest."

"I don't like the thought of leaving you here with him alone," Tom objected.

"I don't think he's a danger to any of us," Pam said as she tucked her cell back into her pocket. "Besides, he's very good at disappearing, and I won't guarantee that he'll stick around here any longer than he has to. He might even be gone before we leave in the morning. You never know."

"Well, if he's still here in the morning, and you do stay home, Shel, keep the doors locked and the security system on," Tom instructed. "Even if what Pam says is true, there's no point in inviting trouble."

"Semper paratus, Mister Navy Man?" Shelly grinned.

"I thought that was Coast Guard," Pam laughed, enjoying the easy camaraderie of the Cronin home.

The rest of their conversation was interrupted by a loud thud that came from behind the door to the guest room.

* * *

Hot. He was so hot. He was on fire. He was burning up. Breathing was becoming more and more difficult. 

He needed to move. He tried to move. His limbs were pinned. He struggled against the restraints.

David?

_His name wasn't David. His name was Jason. Jason Bourne. _

He opened his eyes. He saw nothing. Something was covering his head. Something was holding him down. He struggled against the weight.

Jason?

_I'm no longer Jason Bourne._

Jason.

_I'm no longer Jason Bourne._

Jason!

_NO! I'm NOT Jason! _

Lightning flashed, blinding him. An explosion set his ears ringing. He fought harder against the restraints, pushing back with his legs, trying to get up, get away. His heart pounded in his chest, bruising his ribs. His lungs were starving for oxygen.

The tourniquet – tied around his bicep – _NO! Not again!_ The needle – against his skin – sliding in – into the vein – pumping into his bloodstream.

_No! Please, no…!_ Sweat poured out of his body. He was turning to ash.

"David. Come on, David, easy now."

The voice – the voice that called to him. He knew that voice. It was not the voice of the program. He focused on it.

"That's it, Pam. Keep talking to him. You've got his attention." A male voice. Again, not belonging to the program.

"Here, Tom. Here's the ice."

Cold. Something cold was laid against his neck. Against his chest and stomach. Packed along his arms. Arms that weren't bound, tied down. He could move them. He opened his eyes. Light. Dim. Just enough to see. He blinked his eyes. Dry. Dry as bones. But working. He could see. He glanced around. He was on his back on a hard surface. The floor. Where? He was still so hot. But cool was coming. He could feel it. Something damp and cool on his face and chest. Cold packed against his wrists. Cool relief. He sighed. Closed his eyes. Opened them again. Saw faces. Familiar.

"David. Come on, David, wake up."

The voice belonged to Pamela Landy. Pamela Landy in Berlin. In New York. On the phone. Standing in the entrance to the medical center on 71st Street. She was at his side, kneeling on the floor next to him. He focused on her face.

"Welcome back, David," she said quietly.

"What – what happened?" his voice was raspy, coming from a dry, parched throat.

"You spiked quite a fever, Webb."

David focused on the male voice. He knew the voice, the man. Cronin. Tom Cronin. Pamela Landy's right hand man. It was Tom's floor he was lying on. Tom was holding towels against his wrists, damp towels filled with ice, towels that cooled his blood, lowered his body temperature.

"You were putting up quite a fight against something, David."

Webb looked up into another familiar face. Shelly. She held a cold towel against his forehead. There was another under his neck.

"Here," she said, holding a tumbler of liquid from which a straw protruded. "It's water. Drink up."

She held the straw to his lips and he pulled the much needed liquid into his mouth, swallowing, sighing with relief as the moisture hit his parched tissues.

"Felt like I was strapped down," he whispered. He looked at his arm, fully expecting to see some kind of IV needle in place, but there was nothing there. He frowned. "Could have sworn you stuck a needle in me."

Pam and Shelly exchanged puzzled glances.

"No restraints, no needles here, my friend," Tom reassured him. "Hallucinations, probably. It's been a while since we got that Imitrex into you. Aspirin would help with the fever. Feel up to it?"

Webb closed his eyes. He felt like shit. His side was a constant and annoying throb, his head still achy from the migraine, his body temperature still elevated. Now a whole new batch of bruising had set up a chorus of pain on top of his already battered muscles. "Give me a minute," he said, glancing around the room. "I'm on your floor again."

"You fell," Pam informed him. "You were fighting against someone or something when we got here. You'd tumbled off the bed. It took all of us to subdue you."

"Sorry," Webb mumbled, exhaustion hovering. He concentrated on his breathing, on the muscles that expanded and contracted his chest, pulling oxygen into his lungs, pushing out carbon dioxide. Minutes ticked by. His heart rate settled down. After a bit, Shelly and Pam gathered the towels they'd used to hold ice against his body. He sat up. The shirts he wore were soaked with sweat. He unbuttoned the flannel shirt, pulled it off.

He pushed himself up from the floor, shrugging off Tom's assistance. He sat down on the edge of the bed. The headache was still with him, though not as bad as it had been. Fortunately the nausea had disappeared.

Shelly handed him several aspirin tablets and the tumbler refilled with water. Tom stepped out of the room for a bit. He returned with his medical kit. "Let me take a look at that injury, check my sutures. You're probably bleeding again."

The women left the room as Webb eased his arms out of the damp t-shirt. He stretched out on the bed, holding himself as still as possible under Tom's ministrations. The poking and prodding hurt like hell, but white knuckles were the only evidence that Webb displayed. "As I suspected," the older man said as he removed the gauze. "Infection. We should get some antibiotics into you. Otherwise, it'll be a long road to healing."

"Been down that road before," Webb informed him, glancing at his shoulder.

Tom nodded. As he cleaned the wound, he had noticed the fresh scarring that spoke of recent self-administered surgery. He taped a bandage against Webb's side and checked his patient's temperature again. "Down some. Good. Get some sleep if you can."

A light tap on the door was followed by Shelly's voice, "Here's a clean shirt, Tom."

Cronin held the shirt out. Webb declined his assistance, moving slow but managing on his own. He donned the shirt, lay back on the bed, closing his eyes, closing out the world.


	7. Chapter 7

_Wow, it's been a while... Got caught up in some other entanglements, and just haven't been able to return full attention to this piece. Part of me wants to portray Jason Bourne, now David Webb, as a sympathetic character. That's how Shelly feels. Yet, I, myself, am with Tom. Bourne is a highly trained dealer in death, who ultimately is responsible for his own actions. He should be held accountable. But as it is through Shelly's eyes we seem to be looking, here is a furthering of her interactions with an assassin. And thanks for taking the time to read. _

* * *

Something woke him. He was being watched. Slowly opening his eyes, he took careful note of his surroundings. He was still in the Cronin house. Still on the futon in the guest room. He remembered lying on the floor, feverish and hurting. He remembered returning to bed. He glanced at the single window in the room. Dim light streamed through the holes in the blinds. The window had been dark the last time he had looked at it. 

He rolled over carefully, moving cautiously, taking stock of the condition of the various parts of his body. There were general aches and some pain from his side, but nothing he couldn't handle. He turned his head toward the door, which was open. The woman named Shelly was watching him from the doorway, hand on the doorknob.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"It's okay. How long…?"

"How long have you been sleeping? Nearly 'round the clock," Shelly informed him. "Tom and Pam brought you here mid-evening yesterday. The fever woke you around 11 last night. You haven't moved since, and it's nearing four o'clock. PM."

"I slept," his voice held a note of disbelief.

"I think you were beyond tired," she commented as she pushed the door farther open. "How do you feel?"

He stretched, finishing his internal inspection. "Tired. Sore. I'll live."

"May I come in?" she asked.

He nodded as he eased himself to a sitting position.

Shelly stepped into the room and offered him a bottle of water. "Thirsty?"

She had read his mind. He took the bottle and twisted the cap. The water was cold and vanished quickly.

"Still running fever," Shelly surmised.

"Maybe a touch," he replied. "Nothing I can't handle. I – uh, last night, I didn't hurt anyone when I…" he let the words trail off.

"When you fell off the bed? No. You were pretty tangled in the sheet and blanket, like you'd been wrestling. You were hallucinating. Tom warned us."

Webb nodded once, relieved that he'd caused no damage.

"Do you mind if I say something here that's really trite and probably quite foolish?" Shelly folded her arms across her body and leaned against the wall.

The young man looked at her, puzzled.

"Pam filled me in on a lot of your story. You – you don't look like an assassin," she commented.

"I think that is the idea," he told her.

"Fair enough," Shelly smiled. "I washed and dried the clothes you had on yesterday," She directed his attention to a pile of neatly folded garments on a chair against the wall. "You arrived here with no shoes. I've got some old pairs after my son in the closet, if you wear size 10 1/2 or 11."

"Thank you," he said as he pushed the blanket away from his torso, swinging his legs over the edge of the futon. "If I remember correctly, the bathroom is down the hall on the left."

"Yes," Shelly answered. "Help yourself to a shower if you want. Towels are in the drawer. Tom left some fresh dressings for your injury. They're on the counter. Let me know if you want some help." She moved back as he passed, noticing the faint hitch in his step as he favored his injured side. She and Tom had discussed Webb's presence in their house until the wee hours of the morning. Tom was not thrilled that she would be alone with this stranger if he left with Pam for CIA HQ in Langley. He explained some of the things that had gone down in Berlin and Moscow, tried to impress on his wife that their guest was a highly trained assassin, a kind of living weapon.

"Pam believes that the people who might have reason to come after him think he's dead," Shelly had pointed out. "You know me, Tom. I've made a hobby out of reading people. From what you and Pam tell me, he's not exactly sure who he is. He was someone called 'Jason Bourne.' Now he's David Webb. He's got a lot to sort out. I suspect he needs some serious time to think. He doesn't strike me as dangerous, just a little uncertain. Besides, he hasn't been contracted to take me out, has he?"

Tom had eventually given up trying to convince her to leave the house.

"Truthfully," Shelly had finished, "it's Pam I'm worried about, she's the one getting herself into some hot water. Go with her. Do what you can. I'll be fine."

So Tom and Pam had packed up and driven back to the New York office earlier that day, leaving her alone with David Webb. She'd only had office hours scheduled at the university for the day, and a meeting or two, all of which was easily canceled. She'd spent the day catching up on some reading, and doing a bit of cooking and baking – things she usually ran out of time to do on a normal week day. Time had passed quickly and without incident. Her attention returned to the present as a timer on the oven beeped, calling her back to her work.

Nearly an hour later, Webb emerged from the bathroom and stood in the entrance to the kitchen, jacket in hand. Shelly had been listening for his return, but was still momentarily startled by his sudden appearance. One second the doorway was empty, the next he was standing there. "Feeling better?" she asked as she turned from her work at the counter, wiping her hands on a towel.

"Yes, thanks," he replied. "I left the clothing and towels in the bath. If there's something you need done with them…"

"That's fine, I'll deal with them later," Shelly told him. "You're not planning on leaving immediately, are you? I would think you must be hungry."

Webb glanced around. The kitchen smelled of fresh baked bread and the evidence sat on a cooling rack near the stove. A small television on the counter in the corner of the room displayed the current CNN feed.

"I should keep moving, but – yeah, I'm hungry," he admitted.

"I've got some cold chicken and fresh bread here for a sandwich. Please. Sit down," Shelly invited.

Hesitating only briefly, he laid his jacket over the back of a chair. "Kinda quiet here," he observed as he sat down.

Shelly placed chicken and bread, cheese and lettuce on the table in front of him. "Pam got called in by the Senate Intelligence Committee.," she informed him, adding water to a pitcher of ice. "Certain documents were faxed to the chair of the committee, and all hell is breaking loose. The news networks are having a field day. Tom went with her, to back her up."

Webb cocked his head and Shelly answered the question before it could be asked, "I chose to stay here. It would have felt strange to leave you – our guest – here, by yourself. Per Tom's instructions, I've kept the doors locked and the security system on, but I'm thinking that people with your, um, talents, would probably make short work of these devices."

"It doesn't make you nervous, being alone here with me – knowing what I am?" Webb was genuinely curious.

"Should it?"

Webb looked at her and shrugged as he busied himself making a sandwich. Shelly took a chair across the table, glass of ice water in her hand.

"You are welcome to stay here, stay as long as you like," she told him.

"You don't even know me, and yet you seem to trust me," Webb observed.

"I trust Tom. And he trusts Pam. She's concerned about you, you know. She feels a certain responsibility for your safety. She sends these along with her compliments." Shelly pushed a small bag toward her guest. He picked it up and pulled out the contents. It was a prescription bottle, labeled '_penicillin_.'

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Guess I should use them," he commented, popping open the bottle and downing two of the capsules. "Give her my thanks. You said she's been called in front of a senate committee?"

Shelly nodded. "The documents she faxed shed light on a program that was apparently targeting U S citizens with assassination."

Webb frowned as he concentrated on his meal. Shelly seemed content to sit and wait, sipping her ice water. The only sound for several minutes was the ticking of the kitchen clock on the wall. When the sandwich was gone, Webb picked up a napkin to wipe his mouth. "So, is Pam planning on bringing me in front of this senate committee?" he asked.

Shelly shook her head. "Tom thinks that if you tell your story, you'll wind up in more trouble than you've already found yourself. Pam feels she owes you for bringing this mess to light. She's more than happy to let someone named 'Jason Bourne' die." She watched as Webb absorbed her words. "Pam figures it was a long fall off that roof. And someone fired a gun at the guy. Probably killed him, or he was killed on impact. Or drowned. Hard to say."

"Yeah, hard to say," Webb echoed, blowing out a breath. "Thanks for the meal. Again."

"I hope you can keep this one down longer than the last one," Shelly smiled. "Is the headache gone?"

Webb blinked, realizing that for the first time in a long time, he didn't feel the constant background throb that had been a part of his daily life, that dull ache to which he'd become accustomed over the last several years. He nodded slowly, "Headache's gone. Completely."

"I couldn't help notice that your memories triggered some rather severe reactions earlier," Shelly commented. "Whatever you've got going on can't be too pleasant."

David Webb sat quietly for a moment, running another internal check. "Doesn't seem to be a problem any longer," he informed his hostess. "I think everything is in place. I remember being David Webb. As a child. As an adult. I remember training to become 'Jason Bourne.'" He stared at the table, "and I remember – things that I did." His last words were barely above a whisper.


	8. Chapter 8

_So here is the last installment of this particular piece for the time being. It is what it is. Thanks to all who read, and especially to those who choose to leave comments. I've appreciated the encouragement._

* * *

"For Treadstone," Shelly prompted, watching him closely. He hid it well. Yet she caught the miniscule muscle twitch, the nearly imperceptible eye movement, the tell tale signs of a human being in conflict, a man at odds with himself. 

He straightened, then nodded glumly. "How much do you know?" he inquired, raising his eyes to face her – and his memories.

"Some general information, some details. A few names. Enough to pique my curiosity. Which might be good or bad, depending on how you look at it. What's the saying? 'A little knowledge is perhaps a dangerous thing.'" She smiled encouragingly.

The former Treadstone operative rested his arms on the table, wrapping his hands around the glass of water in front of him. He came to a decision. "It was a kill squad. We took out a number of targets that were presenting threats to the United States. We stopped a lot of nasty stuff from getting off the ground." He searched her face for any kind of revulsion or judgment. He found none. "Sometimes – sometimes we need the bad guys taken out, no questions asked."

"Yes, that is one way of looking at it," Shelly shifted in her seat, leaned forward. "So, if I may ask, why do you feel such guilt?"

"You don't beat around the bush, do you?" Webb observed. After a few moments, he asked quietly, "Is it that evident?"

"To me, yes – only because I know what to watch for. I've spent a lot of my life observing people," she told him. "Unless my read is totally off, you are dealing with more than just a little remorse for what you've done." She ran her finger around the rim of her water glass. "You don't have to answer if you don't want to. I'm not going to press. Or judge. You want to talk? I'll listen. Tom has always told me I'm a good listener."

Webb glanced around the kitchen, at the walls that held evidence of home and family. Things he hadn't been around for a long time. And for some reason, he realized he wanted – no, – he **needed** to explain. It had been such a long time since he'd been able to share his complete memories with anyone. "I volunteered for the program," he told her. "I wanted to be able to do something, to make a difference. To be a part of something with teeth. I was Army. Delta. We conducted a number of ops that, well, they didn't go as planned." He licked his lips, remembering incidents, places and faces, the day that Neal Daniels appeared in his hospital room, the day he volunteered to become a part of the Treadstone project, his first mission as Jason Bourne.

Clearing his throat, he continued, "I hated having to wait for an official 'okay' from higher up when we had the target in the rifle sight. I wanted to be able to secure an objective without anyone deciding to stop it because it would not be politically correct at the last minute."

Shelly folded her hands on the table in front of her, nodding an understanding.

Webb found it cathartic to talk. He shared some of his Army experiences, talked of his deployment with the Rangers and a little of his operations as Delta. In halting sentences, he told her of the mission that drove him to the edge, the operation that went so badly that most of his squad was killed, an operation during which he had been seriously injured. It was while he was recuperating from those injuries that Neal Daniels walked into his life. Daniels came to him with an offer, with details of a program called Treadstone, a program that would provide necessary training to volunteers who would then be called upon to complete top secret missions with no strings attached.

"That's what they told me. That was Treadstone. At least at the beginning. Run by a doctor named Hirsch. He was using some extreme and questionable training methods, including sensory overload, sleep deprivation, you name it. Behavioral modification," his voice cracked as he detailed the extent of his training, laying the facts out in front of a stranger. He swallowed hard, plowed on. "I volunteered for it," he admitted. "In the beginning I thought I could handle what they threw at me. And part of me, part of me resisted, but I had started this and couldn't – you know, quit," he shrugged apologetically. "I allowed this to happen, let myself be turned into the assassin who did not question, who just did. Did what he was told. And I killed people. I thought it was in the name of patriotism, I thought I killed to save American lives. I believed that what I was doing was for the good of the country." He paused, took a deep breath. "I've since learned that there were things going on behind the scenes. Power struggles and greed and political game playing. The usual shit. Guess it shouldn't surprise me. I was a pawn in a game," he said disgustedly. "But Treadstone never targeted U.S. citizens. Not while I was in the program."

Shelly listened as the words tumbled out. "Easy, David," she soothed, noticing the single bead of sweat trickling down his temple, catching the slight tremble in his fingers. "Take a deep breath and relax. You've been through some serious trauma. It's not all going to go away in an hour, or a day. This will be with you for a long time."

Webb nodded. He sat back and drank some water, focusing on slowing his heart rate.

Shelly refilled his glass. "According to Pam, you acquired handlers who used you for personal gain with Vladimir Neski as the target. That was all arranged by a man named Abbott?"

"My handler was Conklin," he explained. "Tough-as-nails, no nonsense guy. I did a lot of my assignments under his direction. He did some work for Abbott. I only just learned that Abbott used the Neski case for personal gain. I don't know if Conklin was aware that taking Neski out was not in the best interest of America, but in the best interest of Abbott and his Russian counterpart. He may have suspected, but I think he was anxious to prove that the training worked. Bottom line, the op was a cover up for diverted money, for nothing more than power and greed. And I pulled the trigger – on innocent lives."

He shook his head in resignation. He'd laid bare much of his past. He thought of the other operations in which he'd participated over his tenure with Treadstone. He wondered how many more of them were legitimate, and how many weren't. He returned his gaze to Shelly's sympathetic eyes. "I don't know why I'm telling you all this. No one else has ever heard this whole story. I told Marie what I could, what I remembered, but it wasn't much. Just bits and pieces. She was helping me jog my memory, helping me put names to faces. I tried – tried to apologize for what I'd done."

"And for someone to say that it was your job doesn't make it any better, does it?" Shelly guessed.

Webb shook his head. "I used that reasoning to explain to a young woman why I killed her parents," he admitted, remembering all too well the rather one-sided conversation with Irena Neski in Moscow only a few short weeks ago. "It – it didn't help."

"But it does help to talk about it, to share it with someone, doesn't it?" Shelly asked.

"Yeah," he answered. "It helps. It feels like Confession. I – I haven't been to Confession in a long time."

Shelly smiled at the thought. "People confess their sins in an effort to seek absolution, to obtain some assurance of forgiveness. I'm not a priest, but I do know that God forgives." She leaned back in her chair. "Somehow you will have to come to terms with your actions and move on. You will have to find a way to accept it as part of who you are now. Choices were made and paths were followed. Who is to say that one path is better than another? It sounds to me like your biggest challenge will not be in seeking forgiveness from God or the world but in seeking forgiveness from yourself."

He looked around, committing the room to memory, tucking it along side the short time he'd spent with Marie in Goa, wondering if he'd ever acquire anything remotely resembling a home again. "This is all so strange," he tapped his head. "For three years, my memory's been full of holes, worse than a block of Swiss cheese. So much was missing. It's here now. And you are right. I need to deal with it."

He stood and stretched, picked up his coat and put it on, zipped up the closure against the night air. It was time to leave.

Shelly rose from her chair. "Are you sure you don't want to stay longer?" The look on her face was one of genuine concern.

"I can't. I – I need to keep moving. I have some unfinished business to take care of. And I have certain skills that are a part of me now. Skills that scare people. I don't know if I can turn them off. It's probably best if I disappear."

Their attention was drawn to the television as the regular newscast was interrupted by more breaking news from Capitol Hill.

"_In Washington, news sources are reporting word of a possible shake-up in The Agency_," the reporter said as the screen depicted a bird's eye view of CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia.

Shelly turned to face the young man in her kitchen. "Sounds like the committee might be acting on Pam's testimony. I'm thinking it won't be long before someone mentions the name 'Jason Bourne.'"

"All the more reason for me to leave." Webb headed for the door.

"How about a ride? Can I give you a ride anywhere?"

Webb shook his head. "It's late, and I don't want to impose on your hospitality any more than I already have. I'll walk. I need the time to think."

"Okay. You be careful out there."

"Yes, ma'am," he said as he opened the door.

"I hope you find what you are looking for, David." Shelly held out her hand. He took it in his. Her grip was firm and warm, totally sincere. "You are welcome to come back anytime."

"Thank you," he replied. "That means a lot."

He pulled the door shut behind him, breathing deeply of the chill night air. His side protested only slightly as he descended the steps. He looked up and down the street, fully aware that he was still being watched. Turning his collar up, he pulled it closer around his neck, and set off down the side walk.

* * *

_Screen fades to black._

_Credits roll._

_Starring Matt Damon, Joan Allen, Tom Gallop, David Strathairn, Scott Glenn, Albert Finney, Julia Stiles, Edgar Ramirez._

_Directed by Paul Greengrass_

_Adapted from the novels of Robert Ludlum._

_Music by John Powell._

_Background music is Linkin Park's **What I've Done**._

_"In this farewell, there's no blood, there's no alibi, 'cause I've drawn regret from the truth of a thousand lies._

_So let mercy come and wash away What I've Done._

_I'll face myself to cross out what I've become erase myself and let go of what I've done._

_I start again and whatever pain may come, today this ends, I'm forgiving what I've done."_

Thus ends Book 1. More will eventually be written. Just no guarantees when.

However, I can't resist. The credits are over, the black screen slowly lightens as we fade in --

* * *

A late model dark-colored sedan turns the corner and comes along the street behind Webb. Lengthening his stride, Webb disappears around the next corner. When the car makes the same turn, Webb is nowhere to be seen. 

The sedan stops. The passenger window opens. A voice calls out. "I know you can hear me."

Webb answers from the shadows, "I knew you were here. I knew you were watching."

"I knew you would leave. Sooner or later," is the reply.

Webb steps out of the shadows, maintains his position near the back of the vehicle, just enough to be seen in the passenger side rear-view mirror. "I am unarmed," he notifies the man in the car.

"So I see."

Webb leans a bit to look into the vehicle. The driver is a younger man with dark, curly, close-cropped hair, Spanish features - and a nasty cut on his forehead. "Why didn't **you** take the shot?" Webb asks.

The driver is silent for a few moments. "To make us even."

"Understood. Now what?"

The driver shrugs. "I have no assignment."

"Hirsch has been taken into custody, along with Vosen." Webb informs the driver. "And the director will eventually come under investigation. There will be no more assignments."

"Are you warning me to get out of Dodge?"

"Yes, I am."

"You killed Desh," the driver states.

"Yes."

"He was good. Very good."

"Yes. He was."

"Are you sticking around to see what happens?"

"No."

"Got plans?"

"Yes."

"Need a ride?"

"Maybe."

"Where you going?"

"Canada."

The driver thinks for a moment. "Canada works for me."

"You offering a ride?"

"Tell me which way to go."

"I stashed some stuff in a locker."

"You gonna get in, or walk?"

Webb opens the passenger door, slides in, pulls the door closed.

"Which way?" the man called Paz asks as he puts the car in gear.

"Head for the airport."

Paz nods. After a few miles of silence, he asks, "What's in Canada?"

"A way to get back to Europe."

"You're going back."

"Easier to stay under the radar there," Webb replies. _Besides, he thinks as he smiles to himself, I gotta go see about a girl._

* * *

_Deja vu, anyone? Apologies to Matt, Ben and Robin. :)_

_Cue Moby's **Extreme Ways...**_


End file.
